


Annoy

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Episode: s01e16 Shuttlepod One, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Brief insomnia after Shuttlepod One.
Relationships: Malcolm Reed/Charles "Trip" Tucker III
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	Annoy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His room is Spartan and cramped compared to his planetside quarters, but it’s a hell of a lot better than the back of a tiny shuttlepod. His bunk is utilitarian but feels like a pile of synthetic feathers, and the air’s the same lukewarm temperature as it is all over the ship, but it’s a furnace after what he’s been through. He can wrap himself up in extra blankets, curl into a ball, and not have to worry about whether or not he’ll wake up in the morning. It’s _good to be home_ , but for whatever reason, it’s not enough. 

He thinks he has a good idea why. He tries not to acknowledge it. The first thing he thought when he woke up in sickbay was _Thank God_ , no more of Malcolm’s pessimistic yammering. He doesn’t have to make excuses to get closer to another man’s body heat and doesn’t have to smell Malcolm’s fading cologne and growing sweat. But those few days together were so intense that it still doesn’t feel _real_ to be without them. He’s alone with his own thoughts, and that’s not as nice as it should be. 

He tries to sleep through it. He sucks in a deep breath and luxuriates in the recycled air, trying to think of his shift tomorrow—the first one since getting back—how he might just kiss his engines and give them a big bear hug to make the rest of Engineering laugh and welcome him back. But Malcolm’s lilting accent keeps worming into his brain, talking about this pair of beautiful lips or that pair of gorgeous eyes. Honestly, if Malcolm hadn’t been there, speaking every second, maybe Trip would’ve taken the time to record his own letter. Just one or two. And he would’ve still worked through it, because in his mind, that’s an officer’s duty. 

It’s a good crew member’s duty to sleep, so they’re rested up for their shift, but it’s not happening. He briefly contemplates going back to sickbay, letting Phlox shoot him full of medical drugs, and just conking out. But he knows what he really wants, what he _needs_ , so he pushes out of bed and swears as he climbs back into his uniform. He’s not about to walk the halls in his blue underwear, though he settles for slippers instead of boots. With any luck, those will come off again soon. 

The hallway’s empty—it’s long after alpha shift, and the night shift’s busy at their posts—so maybe Trip could’ve lumbered through in his boxers. He must look half dead anyway and can’t stop yawning. Then he’s in front of someone else’s quarters, hand up against the door, and the computer beeps for him. 

There’s a good chance he’s too late, and Malcolm’s passed out cold. But the door slides open suspiciously fast, and he’s standing there, in the same close-cut shorts and shirt that Trip has on under his jacket. Malcolm’s hair is immaculately brushed, his stubble all gone, looking for all the world like he does on every morning: deliberately flawless. There aren’t even bags under his eyes. He smells like the same cologne he had in the shuttle, but stronger. 

He greets, “Commander,” without any surprise in his voice, and that gives Trip hope that the awkward feeling’s mutual. 

Trip grunts, “Can’t sleep,” and half hopes that’ll be enough. It is. Malcolm nods, then steps aside, giving Trip room to push through. There’s a PADD in his hand, but he doesn’t turn back to it—his focus stays on Trip. The door seals behind them, and just like that, they’re _trapped_ , locked up together again like nothing’s changed. 

It’s bizarre how much comfort Trip finds in that. He knows in a few weeks, he’ll look back on the whole thing and laugh. In the meantime, he just needs a more gradual transition. 

He can’t quite meet Malcolm’s glittering eyes. So he scratches the back of his head as he picks a point on the silver wall to stare at, and he vaguely explains, “I guess I’m not... I don’t know. Over it, or... whatever.” Malcolm nods like he understands. Trip swallows and tries to laugh it off with a qualifying: “’Guess I got too used to your voice naggin’ my ear off while I’m tryin’ to sleep.”

Malcolm quirks a small smile. If he’s offended, he doesn’t start a fight over it, maybe because they’ve had enough fights in the last few days to last a lifetime. He hesitates for a moment before trailing over to the bed, as thin and bland as Trip’s but made twice as neatly. Malcolm perches near the pillow and pushes the blankets back at his side, warning Trip, “I’m not finished with it either. I keep going back through the logs I made, wondering if I should still send parts.” Trip nods, because maybe he should—Malcolm said he’s not good at connecting with people, that some of those people didn’t even know he was in space, so it makes sense to reach out. It doesn’t make sense to waste another night rambling about a death that isn’t coming. 

But it relaxes Trip to think about, and he’s already taking the invitation. He’s next to Malcolm in seconds, kicking out of his shoes and hiking onto the bed, then climbing under the covers. Malcolm stays sitting there, and Trip has to decide whether to pull the pillow closer or settle for Malcolm’s legs. 

He figures he’s already in too deep to balk now. And he’s tired and _alive_. So he settles down in Malcolm’s lap, resting his cheek against Malcolm’s thigh, and mumbles, “This never leaves these quarters.”

“Agreed.” Because that’s not what this is. Not yet, anyway. 

“G’night, Lieutenant.”

“Good night, Commander.” 

Malcolm doesn’t lie down, just accesses his last log and pours through it aloud, and that grating, glorious voice is just the lullaby Trip needs to finally fall asleep.


End file.
